


you can't stay for long

by hurryup, nea_writes



Series: divine but not devout [5]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Falling In Love, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nea_writes/pseuds/nea_writes
Summary: Love.It was a disease, rotting him from the inside-out. It would damn him, again as it did the first time for those who would not remember him, and now for those who would not outlive him.





	you can't stay for long

**Author's Note:**

> Another oneshot, just to be sweet. I've been feeling kind of soft for this au... at least in asides like this, they can be happy and cute. 
> 
> This was also a fun challenge. I've never written first person pov for any of the characters, I think, and writing a journal entry is especially interesting! Anyways, Link's thoughts are brief, so I hope those who really don't like first pov (like me lol) don't mind too much ^^
> 
> Inspired, again, by Goblin.  
>  _I Miss You | Souyou_

_Those halcyon days._

 

 

 

Link paused, thumbing a corner of the page as he flicked through his journal, lingering on a note he'd written a decade ago. His cursive penmanship, the fantastic loops and carefully spaced letters, the perfect writing he'd strove for years to emulate; it was so precise as to be printed. There wasn't an echo of Link in his writing, no slant to say he was rushed, no missing dots or circles or even hearts. Perfectly, wonderfully, utterly bland.

_Every few years I remember the day I left. I was barely grown, only half a man, and the more years that pass, the clearer that becomes. I was, in the most simplest of terms, a fool._

_Perhaps it is because we are frozen in time, but the memories never fade, or grow old, nor even become tainted with nostalgia. They are as precise as yesterday's and moments' ago. I remember their smiles, the sound of their laughter, even their anger over trifles._

_With a memory as such, this journal is particularly useless, but it is a comfort to write what I will never say._

_We are at the turn of another century, and it is, in some regards, the same as before, and in others, entirely different. Progression and knowledge is exponential, and science a curiosity without bounds. Marvels that stunned the world are merely a given, and the time between is growing only shorter. For all the years I am thankless, moments like these, I appreciate having seen._

A break in the perfect writing, a slightly too wide gap between the meticulous lines. Link traced the length of it, knowing this innocuous, nearly indistinguishable, hesitation was the most telling of all. 

_Their graves are growing frail, crumbling at the sides, worn smooth at the tops. Time has passed such that one of them lives not a stone's throw away, but knows nothing of her history. Following them all has become increasingly difficult, but not impossible. Every few generations, there is a child born so preciously similar, I cannot breathe, staring at a face living only in memory. As always, I stay my distance, knowing there are no blessings nor protection I could bring._

_There are none, now, who call upon their heritage so strongly, but echoes always remain. Family is, and always has been, the final law. Few have traveled far, and in the end they returned._

_Just as I have._

It was a tad melodramatic, lost in reminiscence as the world became a millennial older. There was nothing to do at such a time but to look backwards, a foolhardy sentiment, since nostalgia was more painful than uplifting. 

Especially so, in Link's case. 

He flipped through a few more pages, the notes nearing their end. He didn't document daily, but rather across intervals. Every few years, or if something monumental happened. If he visited their graves, he tended to write, too. 

He'd re-written this journal three times over, previous editions worn with time. Those were carefully preserved now, even if he could never browse through their pages again. It was high time he switched to something digital, but Link couldn't bring himself to break from this simple tradition. Nothing anchored him in the present as much as carefully forming sentences from emotions he neglected to look carefully at on every other occasion. 

At the end was a blank page, ready for Link to fill in. He lifted the pen; a gift of immeasurable worth, still knocked to absorb ink, point sharp enough that Link could very well kill a man with it. He enjoyed the cutting edge, the serration that lined the paper before ink filled it, a sound a keyboard could never hope to replicate.

There was quite a lot to write, this time around. For an immortal, very little changed in his life. Now,  _too much_  was changing, in ways he wasn't quite sure he wanted to break down, even in his journal.

It was still early in the day, bright enough that morning sun shed light into the room he'd convinced Allen to turn into a study. The curtains were drawn away, but wispy white and translucent as they were, they could have been pulled closed for all the difference it made. Winter formed delicate frost at the edges of the paneled window, and if Link peered closely enough he could just begin to make the outlines of snowflakes. They always made him quirk a smile — a lesson Allen had taught him. There was beauty, even in every day mundane events. A pretty flower, a lovely cloud, a wondrous sunset, and a tiny snowflake;  _they make a day different from the rest._

He wrote his entry by the morning light, fingertips red from the prevailing chill his thick sweater — borrowed from Kanda — couldn't chase. It was a soft cream sweater, expensive in taste, filled and lined with what Link knew better than to assume was down, and fit him just a tad too long, sleeves pulled up to clear it of the ink. Link was quite sure Kanda wouldn't forgive him if he stained the sweater, no matter if it was something he could easily replace. 

In less than an hour, Allen would wake up. He slept irregularly, though ever since Kanda and Link had made it a habit to stay near him, he'd lost the edge of some of his nightmares. Still, he always woke shortly after Link or Kanda left, especially now that it was winter. He refused to run the heat, claiming why would he if he had two perfectly good heaters in bed. 

Shameless — shameless, and utterly endearing. 

Ah. Another break in his text. Maybe, years from now, he'd look at this and smile, too. 

Behind him the wood floor creaked, and by now Link recognized the difference from Allen's weight to Kanda's. He finished his sentence and looked up and over his shoulder, meeting Kanda's easy, curious, gaze. 

Acknowledged, Kanda moved closer, one hand drifting to Link's back, cutting Link a short look when he noticed the sweater. Link stared placidly back.

Silence tended to fill the space between them more often than not. They were both a bit more quiet by nature than Allen, and instead of commenting on Link's obvious theft of his sweater, Kanda focused instead on the journal, displayed openly for him to see.

Link made no move to hide it, since all that was written there were details Kanda already knew. He had the feeling, though, that even if it'd been an older entry flipped open, he still would've let Kanda read it.

"A diary?" Kanda scoffed, derisive.

Sighing as Kanda set the tone for the conversation, Link set aside his pen for fear of accidentally staining the cream cloth, glancing outside as he formulated his response. Kids were just beginning to stumble out, stuffed to their ears in jackets, scarves, and mufflers, all over their pajamas as they eagerly greeted the new white day. 

"More like a record," Link said, voice too soft. It was the way the day had started, he told himself. The world quiet as dawn with the fresh layer of snow, Allen's home cold as he slept. He couldn't speak loudly, not yet. 

"Once you're finished, it's your turn for breakfast," Kanda said, then hesitated. Link turned to face him and found Kanda just lingering. There was nothing to say, but in the clear morning light, sun reflecting off the snow and the crystals on the window, Kanda felt more ethereal than he had since the moment Link had first seen him.

Standing there, pure and untouched in the sea of blood Link woke from.

Now, he was more human than angelic, but somehow, even more beautiful. They didn't sleep, no, but Kanda looked pleasantly rumpled. His hair was mussed where he'd rested on it and fell freely around another light-colored sweater that fell to his knees, hiding the wrinkles on his white tee and the soft dark gray sweatpants he'd spent the night in. 

He felt immeasurably close, enough so that Link could reach up and brush a stray hair from his face if he wanted — a sentiment he'd never experienced before. 

Kanda's pupils, narrow from all the light easily provided, dilated, and then he looked down, glancing away. "I'll go wake the beansprout," Kanda said, breaking the silence.

Link sharply inhaled, crystal cold air flooding his lungs near painfully, opening his mouth to say something, _anything,_ but Allen suddenly spoke up, startling them both.

"I'm wide awake, Jerkanda, and  _my name is Allen!"_

Kanda rolled his eyes, turning on his foot to go to the kitchen where Allen surely was, and Link faltered, staring where Kanda had been. He turned back to his journal, entry unfinished, and sighed. Closing the book, he left to join them.

 

 

 

"It's negative seven degrees," Kanda sniffed, voice muffled through the scarf over his nose, eyes alarmingly bright with the reflection from the snow, "and you're making us walk through five inches of fucking snow just to eat breakfast?"

"The more effort, the better it tastes," Allen said resolutely, gaze steadfast on the road ahead of them, wary of any black ice. 

Link, who liked cold weather just fine, adjusted his gloves between his fingers. Allen and Kanda's bickering wasn't as loud as it could be, but they only did it for the sake of routine, a comfort they dabbled in when conversation grew idle. There weren't many others braving the cold as they were, opting to, reasonably, stay in for breakfast, if they weren't sleeping in as it were.

Perhaps Allen might have too, but Link got up early and so Kanda followed, leaving Allen rousing almost immediately. It was cute, truth be told. Lots of things about Allen were cute.

Allen stifled a cough, immediately prompting a pointed look from Kanda. "Shut up," Allen said, rubbing his red nose. "It's just the cold air."

"I'm not taking care of you when your dumbass gets a cold," Kanda said harshly, hair down from its ponytail but bunched under his scarf, avoiding ridicule only by virtue of how beautiful he was no matter what he was wearing or how. The crunch of snow beneath their boots filled the silence when Allen only scoffed. Link, who walked between them but a step behind, had the perfect view of their slowly reddening ears, nose, and cheeks, though Kanda's hair covered his ears. 

It struck him when they were nearly there that Link had settled alarmingly well into this routine. Waking up and waiting for Kanda to follow soon after, Allen rousing not much later, sleepy and hair a mess but expression falling into an easy smile when he first caught sight of Link. Clothes they all wore, though they borrowed Kanda's the most and Allen was liable to do it more often than not. Link's turn to cook, Kanda's to clean up, Allen's to simply laze and watch them, dozing on crossed arms on knees, feet in his seat. 

And a journal entry marked not by devastation or meticulous carefully thought out words but by sentiments he'd refrained from for years, anecdotes that wouldn't matter in history a century, a decade, even a year from now, but that he held near to his heart at that very moment.

Love.

It was a disease, rotting him from the inside-out. It would damn him, again as it did the first time for those who would not remember him, and now for those who will not outlive him.

Kanda stopped suddenly, and it was Link's only saving grace that he managed to as well without bumping into him. Looking up from the path Kanda and Allen had trailed, he found Kanda glaring at him, eyes ice cold and brilliantly blue. Allen stopped too, just a pace or two ahead, looking back curiously. Whatever he saw on Link's face, it was enough to immediately have him backtracking, coming over to look more closely. 

Link recoiled, gaze skittering away.

"Link?" Allen asked, words hesitant, breath fogging white between them. Link's eyes darted from his —gray as the clouds above, snow threatening to fall again— to Kanda's, and to all the white in between. "Is something wrong?"

Allen held back even in his concern, hands upheld as if to reach for Link, snow indented where he had stepped forward and then retreated at Link's too obvious rejection. Link stared at it, the water melted on top Allen's shoes, the footprints layered over each other, the frayed hem of Allen's pants and the neat cinch of Kanda's. 

Love, and all that it meant. When was the last time he'd loved?

There had been Neah, but that wasn't love, or even a twisted abomination of it, though Neah was certainly the product of one. That had been comfort and companionship when they both had no one else. Link didn't think of Neah in empty moments of time, or fondly recall him, or lay beside him in bed, watching him sleep, curled into his chest.

_Is something wrong?_

"No," Link said, finally meeting Kanda's eyes. He wondered if Kanda was thinking of that morning too, the distance between them that had carried some meaning, some weight Link couldn't fathom, had never understood before. "I was lost in my thoughts."

Kanda frowned, clearly catching the white lie, but where Kanda would ream him out, Allen would play along. "Yeah? What were you thinking about?" Allen asked eagerly, turning to face forward, waiting only a second as Link fell into step with him. This time, Kanda trailed behind, glaring accusingly at the back of Link's head.

Idle chatter, words that meant nothing as they all knew Link was hiding the truth and Allen was only indulging him. 

It wasn't really a lie. There wasn't anything wrong.

How could this possibly be wrong?

On a whim, Link reached out, pulling Allen's hand from his pocket, intertwining their fingers. Gloved as they were, it was a little uncomfortable, but it was all Link could do in the moment to apologize for how he'd recoiled earlier. Allen, encouraged by Link's tentative offer, twisted their arms until their hands rested at Allen's shoulder, leaning into Link's side with a grin.

"So," Allen said, voice teasing and light, "Kanda told me about your  _diary."_

Behind them Kanda snorted, his version of an amused laugh. Moving closer, Kanda rested his hand on the small of Allen's back, propelling him forward with muted complaints about the weather. 

For once, Allen didn't protest, and Link rolled his eyes, retorting firmly that it was a  _journal._

Allen laughed, bright and crystal-clear. 

Maybe Link would write this, too. Maybe there'd be another break in the perfect pristine handwriting.

For now, he left behind the old memories and nostalgia, anchoring himself firmly with the warmth of Allen's hand in his.

**Author's Note:**

> nea_chi | twitter  
> nea-writes | tumblr


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